Sheila Connolly - Reunion with Death Read Online Free PDF

I’d brought and decided on three layers of shirts and my jeans. If it warmed up later in the day—one could hope!—I could start peeling off T-shirts. No doubt that would thrill the monks at the monastery.
    I took a deep breath and slid my feet out from under the blankets. Luckily I’d slept in my socks, so the cold tile floor wasn’t too much of a shock. I tiptoed over to the door and wrestled for a couple of minutes with the heavy iron latch, a task complicated by trying to keep quiet so as not to disturb Cynthia. Finally it yielded and I stuck my nose cautiously into the outside world. Yup, still cold—definitely layers weather. There were signs of stirring at the hay barn slash dining hall down below, which was a good sign.
    A muffled voice emerged from the covers. “What time is it?”
    I shut the door. “Seven thirty. I think. My body clock has other ideas.”
    “Where’s the coffee?” Cynthia’s head emerged from under the covers and she scrabbled to push her hair off her face.
    “Down the hill.”
    “What’s the weather?”
    “Nippy. Bundle up, dearie.”
    “Yes, Mother, and I’ll take a clean hankie too.” Cynthia grinned. Funny how quickly we fell back into our old roles. I’d been the manager, making sure the rent was paid on time and there was food in the apartment; Cynthia had been the gadfly, always on her way somewhere, doing things that sounded exciting. Now and then she had brought home some really interesting men; sometimes I’d found them at the breakfast table the next morning. We had reached a good balance and it had lasted four years, an eternity by postgrad standards. I wondered how we’d work it out now.
    I dressed in record time to avoid standing around in the cold. “I’m going down the hill.”
    “I’ll meet you there,” came the muffled reply.
    I checked to make sure I had my camera in the pocket of my windbreaker. After all, the sun had shifted overnight and the view might have changed infinitesimally. Even though it wasn’t yet eight, women were drifting toward the building below in clumps of two and three. I joined them outside the door. It was clear there was a logjam in the lower vestibule, and I made an educated guess that that was where the coffee had been set up. Two people, including the darkly handsome bartender from last night, were busy filling carafes with yet more coffee and passing them over the counter to eager waiting hands.
    I smiled at the person next to me, struggling to identify her without looking at her name badge—and then a lightbulb went on. Asian, short, slender and dressed in high fashion (which stood out amid the jeans and running shoes most of us were wearing). “You’re Xianling Han—you were an art history major, right?” I mentally patted myself on my back: when we’d first met it had taken me a while to reconcile the spelling of her name with the way it sounded, “Shan ling.”
    “I was. It’s good to see you, Laura. I gather you left the art world.”
    “A long time ago. You stuck with it?”
    “I did. I’m vice president of an auction house now, still dealing in art. You?”
    “I’m a quantitative analyst for a large government agency. Not what I expected to be doing.” That was where I usually cut the description short. Time to change the subject. “Doesn’t this remind you of our dorms?” I asked brightly. “Except I don’t think we were so desperate for caffeine back then.”
    Xianling smiled back. “I know what you mean. It takes a real kick to get me moving most mornings. Good thing Italians like their coffee strong.” We inched forward in the coffee queue, only minimally distracted by the announcement that there were hot croissants waiting on the other side. One must have priorities. “Have you been here before?” Xianling asked.
    “Here where? Tuscany? Or Italy?” I responded.
    “Both. Either.”
    “The last time I visited Italy was the year we graduated.” And we were off, exchanging chitchat until